


Prompts

by Willie_The_Plaid_Jacket



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Disguise, Drunkenness, First Time, Frottage, Gen, Holiday, Implied Relationship, Johnlock - Freeform, Kissing, M/M, Memories, Mycroft is a meddling arse, Post-Reichenbach, Smut, The Sign of Three, kissogram, series 3 spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2017-12-26 20:59:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willie_The_Plaid_Jacket/pseuds/Willie_The_Plaid_Jacket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of completed writing prompts from Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Case of the Handsome Kissogram

**Sherlock pretending to be a kissogram and going to the hospital where John works to make hima surprise. Bonus points for an actual kiss :3 -** _i-owe-you-a-tardis_

**\-----------------**

The tie should have tipped him off.

Sherlock never wore ties. Ever. Yet there he was, standing in the waiting room, hands behind his back, in one of his usual bespoke suits but this time complete with tie.

When the nurse had popped her head ‘round the door of John’s office to tell him that there was a man waiting for him downstairs he’d thought it was probably Sherlock anxious to whisk him away to a crime scene.

He hadn’t expected a tie.

'What's wrong?' John asked as he strode towards his more-formal-than-usual friend.

'Dr Watson?' Sherlock asked as if they'd never met before.

Ah, thought John. He’s already on the case. It’s a disguise.

'Yes,' John played along, 'how can I…'

He didn’t get any further before Sherlock surged forwards, bringing them chest to chest, wrapped his left arm around John’s back so that his hand rested at the small of it, and bent the doctor backwards.

And… kissed him. Rather soundly, on the lips. And not briefly either. It didn’t consume, but it lingered. Long enough for John to turn to putty.

Eventually Sherlock pulled away a fraction and John dragged his eyelids at least half open.

Sherlock wore a satisfied smile and whispered, ‘Happy Anniversary.’


	2. Sparring Partners

**John takes Molly to a martial arts class because she's required to take a partner this week. Maybe Sherlock initially refuses but comes to regret that decision?** \- Dangersocks

\------------------------

 

When Sherlock had turned down the opportunity to be Molly’s sparring partner for the week, he thought he’s been doing both her and himself a favour. He’d studied martial arts as a child and picked it up again during his time at university. He knew his own strength and skill and decided to spare Molly the embarrassment (and potentially the pain). He also wanted to spare himself the tedium of facing a lesser opponent.

Unfortunately, the ever helpful Dr John Watson stepped in to save the day and took Sherlock’s place.

Sherlock couldn’t say what made him go with them to watch, but there he was, sat on a bench at the edge of the sparring mats watching Molly and John practice counter attacks.

For her height and build, Molly was surprisingly formidable. Her stances were strong, her movements fluid. She was a long way from attaining a black belt, but she held promise. Although John too wasn’t the tallest of people, he was solid and Sherlock was suitably surprised when Molly flipped him onto his back to counter a punch.

John smiled and stood up. After regaining his composure he moved to punch again and was once more flipped onto the ground.

He tried again, varying his approach slightly but was countered yet again.

Twice more it happened, before Sherlock saw the shift. John’s entire demeanour changed and the look in his eyes turned focussed.

This time, when he went to strike, he altered the path of his hand at the last second, turning the momentum of Molly’s movement’s against her and landing her squarely on her back, with John on all fours leaning over her. 

After a breathless moment they laughed, faces barley inches apart, sweat trickling across brows and necks and arms.

Sherlock hadn’t realised that he was leaning forwards, watching intently. Every muscle in his body had tensed and he wanted to be on that mat, sweating and panting, though perhaps not due to the strain of sparring.

Regaining some control, he sat back and took a deep breath through his nose.

He still had his old gear at home. Perhaps he would have to reacquaint himself with the martial arts once more.


	3. Drifting

**John and Sherlock in a boat.** \- Notyourstandardops

\---------------------------------------------------------

 

'My Father had a rowing boat.'

John turned away from the expanse of fells and forests surrounding the still lake that they drifted across to look at Sherlock who had been staring at nothing in particular as he said those words.

'The estate backed onto a small lake, not unlike this one. Though the surroundings were flatter.' At that, he gestured around them, his eyes still unfocussed. 'In the very early mornings during the summer, he would take me down to the shore and we would climb into this little boat and set off across the lake with no particular goal in mind.'

An oyster catcher skimmed across the gently shifting surface of the water just beyond Sherlock, squawking as it went.

'I would row and my father would sit, watching all that went on around us.

'Eventually, once we were as far from the shore as was possible, I would stop and let the boat drift for a while. Everything was so… still. It was like the world was taking a deep breath.'

John breathed in, smelling the Autumn air carried by the mist that glided over the water.

'He wouldn't say a word to me, nor I to him. And yet…'

Sherlock stopped, shaken out of his head by the realisation of all that he was saying. John didn’t press, he just slid his hand over Sherlock’s prone one that lay in his lap, and squeezed before looking back over the lake.

They drifted a while longer, silently.


	4. Familiar Faces

**Sherlock sees a man that looks like John while he's hunting down Moran. Could it be him?** \- Mylittlecornerofsherlock

\-----------------------------------------------------------

 

Sherlock was thinking about how irritating the laugh of the buxom redhead sat at the next roulette table over was when he caught a glimpse of him through the crowd.

Maurice Le Denier.

Sherlock had tracked the embezzler across France to the very Hotel Casino in Marseilles in which he now sat. The man had Moriarty written all over him. And if he had been heavily involved with Moriarty, then he almost certainly had dealings with the second in command.

Sherlock excused himself from the game he was only half paying attention to and began to follow his mark.

Le Denier was heading towards the lifts, about to head to his room no doubt; alone.

Sherlock picked up his pace but did not accelerate beyond a brisk walk. He couldn’t make it to the lift in time, but the stairwell was near by.

As soon as the stairwell doors closed behind him, Sherlock began sprinting up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He couldn’t possibly hope to beat the lift but he could damn well try.

By the time he reached the right floor, his heart was pounding furiously and he was struggling for breath, but he carried on regardless, determined to get the answers he needed as soon as possible.

Sherlock marched down the corridor, focussed. The room was around the next right corner and on the left. But as he approached, he heard a noise. A muted cry and then a thump.

Sherlock slowed his approach and put his back to the wall as he came to the corner.

Slowly he edged forwards until he could see the door to Le Denier’s room with just his left eye.

The hallway was empty and undisturbed but Sherlock was certain those noises came from his intended destination.

As he made to reach for the gun concealed by his jacket, the door opened. A long moment dragged in which nothing happened beyond the movement of the door. Until finally out stepped a man.

He wore nondescript clothing; pricey enough to fit in but plain enough to not seem out of place on the street. He fell below average height but had broad shoulders and a strong footing. As he adjusted his clothing, Sherlock could see the butt of a handgun held in place by a shoulder holster.

However none of these features were of interest to the detective. Instead he was transfixed by the familiar slope of the man’s nose, the unique dishwater colour of his hair, the recognisable twitching of his hands, and, as he walked away, the singularly confident gait of one John Hamish Watson.


	5. An Unexpected Holiday

**sherlock and john and the accidental holiday** \- Lizzieborednow

\----------------------------------------------------------

 

'Well this is nice.' John commented as he and Sherlock approached a secluded bungalow, hidden away from the road by a copse tucked into the foot of a hill.

Sherlock gave a disinterested grunt.

A peace offering from Mycroft for his latest bout of overprotective brotherliness had come in the form of an unsolved murder of an Eastern European ambassador. The information contained within the folder Mycroft had given Sherlock had led them to the Yorkshire Moors, of all places.

Sherlock had been loathed to accept it at all but a mention of the use of a poison only found in the jungles of Indonesia on an ex-soviet soldier-turned-ambassador in North East England had his interest piqued.

John was just happy to get away from the pollution of the capital for a while.

The bungalow was clearly uninhabited but looked to be in good shape. As Sherlock entered using the key his brother had provided them with, they could see that the inside was much the same. All of the furniture remained and if neither man new otherwise they’d say it…

'Git!' Sherlock exclaimed.

John was taken aback by Sherlock’s sudden outburst and blinked at him slowly.

'I'm sorry, what?'

'That manipulating, fat, git!' Sherlock continued, refusing to elaborate. He moved over to the coffee table that sat in the middle of the living room and picked up a piece of paper. 'Ugh!'

He turned to John, a scowl on his face, and thrust the paper at him.

John took it, curious as to what could possibly have elicited such a reaction from Sherlock, and read: ‘Do enjoy your stay, all supplies are provided. M.’

John re-read the message and stared at Sherlock for a second before concluding, ‘Your brother…. has sent us on holiday?’

Sherlock looked disgusted. He stormed through to the kitchen to look for more notes and upon finding none, stomped off to the bedroom to do the same.

John was still trying to figure out firstly why Mycroft was suddenly being so generous and secondly why going on holiday was such a terrible thing.

He moved to follow Sherlock to ask him as much when he was stopped short in the bedroom doorway by the sight of Sherlock stood next to the bed looking horrified by the unopened bottle of lubricant and the box of condoms in his hands.

John tried very, very hard not to laugh, but couldn’t contain the fit that had him doubling over and clutching his sides. The whole situation was so thoroughly ridiculous, from Mycroft’s elaborate plan, to Sherlock’s pointless strop, to the sex aids in the bedside table.

John, still giggling, walked over to his still perturbed friend and plucked the items out of his hands.

'I'm going to kill him', Sherlock said, much calmer now.

'I know.' John smiled up at Sherlock.

'There's only one thing for it, you know, to truly get him back.' Sherlock looked far less angry and just a hint mischievous.

John’s smile turned crooked and he cocked his head to the side.

'Oh yeah? What's that then?'

Sherlock leaned forwards, now the epitome of mischievous, and said, ‘Use up all of the supplies.’


	6. Multitasking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smuttiness ahoy.
> 
> This was written to go with [this fanart](http://willietheplaidjacket.tumblr.com/post/62503385145/sarahosk-willietheplaidjacket-i-wanted-to) that I did a while back, after someone asked for a fic to go with it.

It was too much information for John’s brain to process all at once, so he decided to focus purely on one aspect, the rest be damned. Kissing Sherlock was the one that won out. Forget about surroundings, forget about the boiling kettle, forget about the terrifyingly new experience that was a lust filled consulting detective; soft, warm, pliant lips on his and the odd flick of tongue was all John could comprehend. 

It wasn’t a savage kiss, but it was far from innocent, too. It was open and wet and both men were huffing breaths through their noses, unwilling to pull away, sometimes an unintentional noise of contentedness getting caught on an exhale.

Somewhere amongst all the stuff that John’s brain was storing but not sorting through was the information that Sherlock’s hands were smoothing all over John’s torso in a downwards increment. He was cataloguing the texture of John’s t-shirt across his chest. He was feeling the swell of John’s ribs and the dip of his waist. He was gliding his hands horizontally around John’s middle so that the tips of his fingers met in the indent of John’s spine before bringing them back around so that his thumbs rested over the well of his bell-button.

Eventually, Sherlock’s hands reached the hem of the t-shirt and in one swift movement slid underneath, ran across bear skin from hip, along John’s side and all the way to the end of his arms, until the garment was removed.

This act of undressing required John to momentarily pull away from the mentally-consuming kiss and allowed him to acknowledge that they had been steadily moving from the Kitchen towards Sherlock’s bedroom. 

A faint protest in the far reaches of John’s mind warned that perhaps this was progressing somewhat quickly, but Sherlock’s lips were on his again before he could agree with or dismiss the notion.

When his back hit the wall by Sherlock’s bed, John was once again dislodged from Sherlock’s mouth and made aware of the goings on around him. Reality sank in. They were in a bedroom, after a heavy bout of snogging, and John was minus some clothing. It didn’t take a genius to realise where this was headed. But John didn’t baulk. He wanted more. He’d wanted the man in front of him for too long to get cold feet when he was finally given permission to have him. 

John placed his hands on Sherlock’s hips and slid a thigh between the other man’s legs. The height difference made it a little awkward and meant that John’s hip was what came into contact with Sherlock’s crotch, but the effect was the same. 

'John', Sherlock groaned and leant back in as if to continue kissing, but instead stopped short and ran his left hand down John's chest to the button of his jeans before unclasping and unzipping, and slipped his hand into both trousers and pants and stroked John's waiting erection.

John couldn’t hold back the breathy ‘Ahhhh’ that escaped at the touch. He was desperate already. He wanted to come. He wanted Sherlock to come. He wanted rough and primal and now. There would be other times later on in which to take it slowly, to explore and taste and love. But they had waited too long already. The insistent hardness at his hip and the almost imperceptible search for friction back and forth of Sherlock’s hips told John that Sherlock was in much the same position.

He made an executive decision and pushed Sherlock back by the shoulders until his legs hit the bed and he fell backwards on to it. John knelt astride the wide-eyed detective and reached down to undo the other man’s trousers, which upon doing he pulled down, along with his underwear, just far enough that his erection was free. John then repeated the action on himself and lay down on top of his as-of-now lover and began rolling his hips whilst resuming their interrupted kiss.

They moaned. Loudly. 

They weren’t quite aligned, there wasn’t much lubrication beyond the small amount of sweat and pre-ejaculate that they had excreted, and their position on the bed, with Sherlock’s legs still hanging over the edge, meant that John was doing most of the work.

But it was perfect. 

It was heated and electric and oh so fucking wonderful. Each movement of their bodies ratcheted up the building pleasure and made their vocalisations more needy. 

They could feel the end approaching, so John propped himself up onto one elbow and with the other hand reached down to grasp both of them together. Sherlock, needing more leverage, clung onto John’s buttocks and shoved upwards with all his might.

It only took a few more strokes and thrusts before Sherlock arched his neck and groaned in ecstasy, his come spreading between their rubbing chests.

John was short to follow. He mashed his face into Sherlock’s shoulder and gasped out a series of cries. 

After an age, when their shuddering bodies came to a still and their breathing slowed to a normal pace, John lifted himself up enough to look at Sherlock, whose hands were still resting on John’s bottom.

Before John could say anything, Sherlock leant up and kissed away the thought.

Everything that had just transpired, everything he felt, emotionally and physically, it was too much information for John’s brain to process all at once, so he decided to focus purely on one aspect, the rest be damned. Kissing Sherlock was the one that won out


	7. Guess Who?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> your version on what should/would have happened on the Stag night had a client not interrupted John and Sherlock :) - Jakathine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor spoilers for The Sign of Three.

 

“I’m you, aren’t I?” Sherlock asked with an air of smug triumph and a grin to match.

John drew in an incredulous breath and said, “You arse,” as he dropped his left hand down onto the arm of his chair.

“What?” Sherlock asked, his smugness turned to innocence.

“I don’t rub people up the wrong way.”

“Pfffftt, yes you do.” Sherlock said, flopping backwards. “ Mrs Hudson’s told me on more than one occasion that she doesn’t like your temper.”

“Oh, yeah,” John threw back sarcastically before leaning forwards, “and she jus’ loves your tantrums an’ your mess an’ your ‘goings on’, as she puts it.” John tried to ignore how the slight slurring of his words and less-than-coordinated wobbling of his head detracted from the emphasis of his point and made him sound like… well, a rambling drunk.

For a moment, regardless of John’s garbled argument, Sherlock frowned and seemed to consider the points made. Then he blinked unevenly and said, “No, wait, you’re right. I can’t be you; no one mistakes you for being taller than you are.”

“Oooooo, you git.” John growled and swatted at Sherlock’s leg with his right foot.

Sherlock giggled through the last swallow of whiskey from his glass, for which John renewed his assault. As the giggling escalated, John’s determination to silence it via an aggressive form of one-sided footsie grew.

Eventually, hands braced on the arms of his chair and his body hovering above the ground, John was practically walking all over a tittering Sherlock with his left foot propped on Sherlock’s right knee as his right foot repeatedly poked the detective in the stomach. One jab to a particularly ticklish rib brought it to an end as Sherlock reflexively grabbed his friend’s ankles and yanked them towards him, causing John to flop in an ungainly fashion on to the floor between the chairs.

John’s disgruntled frown was short-lived as he joined Sherlock in a bout of snickering. His position wasn’t the most comfortable - his feet tucked either side of Sherlock’s hips while his upper body was propped up against his own chair – but he was too happy/drunk to move.

Once the laughter had died down, John looked up at Sherlock who was going cross-eyed trying to read the name on the paper stuck to his forehead. John almost broke out laughing again before a thought occurred to him.

“Hang on,” he said, drawing Sherlock’s attention back to the man sprawled at his feet, “… you really think I’m clever?”

It took a moment for Sherlock to catch up, but when he finally did, a slow smile crept across his face. His hands, which were still resting on John’s ankles, slid up the man’s shins to just below his knees where he gave a faint squeeze and rubbed circles with his thumbs.

Looking John directly in the eyes, he said, “Of course,” to which John returned the smile and let his head fall back onto the seat behind him


	8. Sofa Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What about getting a new sofa in 221b? - Dvancecinco

"I don’t like it."

"What, why?"

"It’s the wrong colour."

"The wrong… Sherlock, we don’t have a single piece of furniture in this flat that matches another. Why are you suddenly bothered about colour coordination?"

"…..It’s too high up from the ground."

"You’re just being a prick, aren’t you."

"And it’s not squishy enough."

"You are a ridiculous person."

"Why am I?"

"Hell if I know."

"I mean why does being concerned about my comfort make me ridiculous?"

"It doesn’t. But Sherlock, you are the master of not giving two shits about such trivial things as a new piece of furniture. When your bed all but collapsed and I asked you which one from the catalogue you’d like as a replacement, you jabbed your finger at a random part of the page without even looking and said ‘That’ll do’ - which by the way happened to be a child’s bed with a frame that was made to look like a Frog; I made an executive decision and assumed you didn’t really want that one. So why the sudden ‘concern’?"

"Because…."

"Yes?"

"….because our old sofa was where we…. first… "

"…Oh. Sherlock, really? I didn’t think you… well. Well. Sorry. I mean, if I’d known…"

"You’d have bought one in a better colour?"

"No, you prat. I’d have given the old girl a better send off."

"Hmm. Would have been good."

"Hmm. So, I suppose we’ll just have to give this one a damn good breaking-in, eh?"

"Yes, John. I suppose we will."


End file.
